#yippe

Steve sighed, the heavy kind that made cold windows foggy. The kind that meant he wanted more to complain than to actually solve the problem.

The 'problem' here being a dinner with your father and his lovely wife you had planned weeks ago, and that steve had enthusiastically agreed to. He hadn't since changed his mind, but you think the weight of the situation might have finally registered on the drive over.

Joyce Byers' house sits pretty in front of you, cozy yellow lighting spilling from the windows - you can almost feel the warmth from here. Speaking of warmth, you seek it in the palm of steve's hand.

His attention is jolted from what was likely his deepest insecurities by your almost frozen fingertips. With your thumb running circles on the back of his hand, you press a kiss to his cheek.

"It's just my dad."

"Your dad's the sheriff."

"He was the sheriff of Hawkins, Indiana." You tried to make your smile as reassuring as you could, tilting your head to look at his face. "He's not as scary as he seems."

Another sigh, and he turned to face you, his forehead meeting yours, noses bumping. He scoffs, blindly reaching behind him for the door handle. "I can't believe you convinced me to do this."

"You said 'yes!' very loudly when I asked." He half-heartedly rolled his eyes before stepping out and rounding the front of the car to open your door.

The night nips at your nose when you step out, clinging to steve all the way up the driveway and to the front door. The doorbell rings inside, and you're wiping a red lip-print from steve's cheek when Joyce opens the door.

She greets both of you with a cheerful hello and a side hug each, shuffling you both inside to hide from the cold. Steve slips your jacket from your shoulders just before Joyce takes your hands in hers, taking a step or two toward the kitchen.

"Oh, come help me get the nice dishes. Jane is coming down in a little bit." She seemed to remember of steve's existence halfway to your destination. "And Hopper's in the loving room, somethings on the TV. Go join him, Steve."

With a wave toward the dimly lit living room and a mouthed 'sorry' over your shoulder, Steve is left frozen by the front door.

The few steps to the Byers' living room seem so daunting Steve thinks seriously about joining you in the kitchen, or hiding in the bathroom, or maybe leaving all together.

But he doesn't. He can't, really. Not when the mental image of your disappointed frown alone makes him shiver harder than the cold.

He braves forward, each creak in the floorboards louder than the last. Whatever terrifying sight he was anticipating (like your father cleaning one of his countless shotguns or shining a butcher's knife) - this wasn't that.

The ex-cheif actually looked maybe as calm as steve had ever seen him - disregarding the fact every time they had run into each other, it was in the face of terrible impending danger.

Your father sits back on the worn-out couch, nursing a beer close to his chest - his beard isn't nicely done, he's wearing blue jeans, and the condensation on the glass bottle leaves a wet patch on his dark sweater. He looks peaceful, even. At home, definitely.

Joyce laughs in the kitchen, and Hopper's head follows the sound almost instinctively. Then he finally spots the figure lingering on the other side of the couch, and his face splits into a smile - Steve can't tell yet if it's genuine or not.

"Hello, Steven." Oh god. "'M glad you actually came, have a seat."

This feels like a test...or a joke, sounds loudly in steve's head, and it immediately makes him feel like an insecure teenage boy.

He sits in the love chair closest to the TV, trying to focus on whatever's playing and not the older man burning a hole into the side of his head.

"Ya like Miami Vice, Steve?" The tone he uses makes it sound like he's going to laugh at whatever answer steve chooses to sputter out.

He nods, bringing a hand up to worry at his lower lip. "Sure, yeah. It's- it's cool, I guess."

"I don't." Hopper shakes his head, slitting his eyes into thin lines - although his gaze stays locked on steve's now frozen expression. A hand lifts, and his fingers disappear into his facial hair, a mocking frown on his lips. "Too unrealistic."

You and Joyce walk into the dining room, and Steve can finally breathe again. He can see the top of your hair over your father's head, hear your shoes clicking against the floor.

Joyce's voice rings through the house when she calls for Jane, placing down white porcelain with careful fingers - you follow with shiny silverware.

Your eyes meet his, and your mouth moves to make a sentence, one hand following its movement. 'Talk to him', punctuated with a thumbs up and a smile.

Steve clears his throat, mimicking your thumbs up. Hopper beats him to it by a couple of seconds.

"Y'know Steve.." he scoots to the edge of the sofa, leaning forward. "I've had a bit of experience with 'daughter's boyfriend's."

His forearms come to rest on his knees, his expression skeptical - almost comically so. It hardens for a beat, his eyes focused and unmoving. Steve doesn't move either, barely blinking.

Hopper takes a small breath in through his nose, and after another terrifying couple of seconds - and then, a small tucked smile. an even smaller nod.

"But, you are both adults." The words sound like they scratch at his throat coming out. If this were a conversation he was having with anyone else, Steve's lips would have split into his usual grin by now. "And I trust... my daughter and her judgment."

"Yeah, I trust her too." He can feel the furrow between his brows you like to smooth over, a smidge of confusion seeping in through the relief. He clears his throat, "and she trusts me too. I make sure of it, swear."

Jim nods again. This time, it's firmer. He stands when Joyce calls from the dining room, one heavy hand on his shoulder. Before leaving the room to join his wife, he leans down - voice low and protective, "don't break that trust, Harrington."

Your dingy and tiny apartment isn't as golden and warm as the Byers' residence, but ever since Steve's designated drawer turned into his own section of your closet, it's on its way.

The heater is busted, the cushions of your sofa are teared, and all the walls have been halfway painted since last August. But on nights like these, where Steve walks in behind you, undoing your updo with careful fingers, and you carry your shoes into the kitchen - the one bedroom, one bathroom feels like home.

You place the note card with Joyce's lasagna recipe down on the counter, setting your coat onto the back of a stool. His hands move from your hair to your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"How'd it go? Was he nice like I told him to be?"

"You told him to be?"

"Of course I did. Did he listen?"

His cheek rests soft against the side of your neck, hands coming to rest warm on your lower stomach. "Yeah. Yeah, he was... nice. still as scary as when he had the badge, though. Very ominous."